


Archie's law

by Ruta



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-24
Updated: 2014-04-24
Packaged: 2018-01-20 16:23:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,041
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1517210
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ruta/pseuds/Ruta
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Archie is a child and admits that he had not yet figured out how the world works. However, he understood one thing. Molly is not "just Molly," not to Mr. Holmes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Archie's law

A quiet day. This had been Molly’s thought after the morning was spent among the routine procedures and paperwork on backorder without nothing unusual happened. Then the first afternoon was dragged into the same, monotonous stroke in slow motion. One of those days where everything was under control. Trivial, banal, commonplace.

 _Boring_ , Sherlock would have remarked in his best gloomy tone.

For once, Molly wouldn't have had objection.

When the wall phone of the morgue - used only for emergency calls Internal - rang, Molly hoped without shame for the miracle of an urgency.

It was, but not of the type expected. Was one of the acceptance nurse, Rita, who announced that a Mrs. Hudson had called to report a message from such _infernal_ _boy_. The infernal boy, otherwise known as Mr. Holmes, prayed them to tell to Dr. Hooper (not exact words, Molly was ready to put her hand on fire) to join him in Baker Street, as soon as possible and without urgency.

Molly smiled.

Checking her mobile phone, a little later, she found a dozen or so messages. The smile became a laugh.

 

* * *

 

Molly went to Baker Street without haste, with all the calm she was ready to grant to herself. She finished her shift - on Thursday her schedule included a half-day, but he knew this, as he knew she would not have gone if it had been differently. Since he returned, reclaiming the unique and irreplaceable role that he had left vacant in the lives of all of them for two years, Molly had put bollards in their relationship. Strange, but true, when she had listed them to him, Sherlock - grimaces to part, of course - had spoken favourably. Because it was one of her main qualities and she had to be recognized as such. The sense of duty, first of all.

For this reason, therefore, Molly took it easy. For this reason, and because, even if monotonous, outside remained a wonderful day on the late September, one of those rustling in which seemed to smell everywhere the scent of apple cider and roasted chestnuts: clean air, just a bit of cold behind the ears such as drafts of the current; a clear sky, no clouds to obstruct the horizon powdery blue.

When she was on the doorstep of the apartment - five years, and nothing had changed in there, a constant, like its owner - she was forced to deal with the unexpected change in the shape of a child. He must not have more than ten years, eleven at most and was sunk with all the ease of his age in John’s chair.

Molly began to look around. "Hello," she said hesitantly. She stepped forward, moving as if she was going through quicksand. When she became aware, called herself foolish. "Are you alone?"

The child shook his head, staring at her with curiosity. "I'm with a friend. He went to get something he had forgotten and he told me to wait here in the meantime."

"What's your name?"

The child rubbed his cheek, unperturbed. "Archie."

There was something familiar. The way he looked at her straight in the eye, without filters, an interest that sank in the bland indifference, softened her. Not because he reminded her a Sherlock young and vexed, already outspoken, but less frowning towards the world around him, the reality in its entirety.

Molly leaned on her knees to move up to his face. "It's a real pleasure meet you, Archie. I'm Molly. Don’t I know you from somewhere?"

He studied her face critically, squinted his dark eyes, as if to bring it into focus. "At the wedding of Watson," he nodded at the end. "You were wearing a green dress and a funny hat?"

"Yellow. It was yellow and insofar as the term funny is appropriate, her headdress was a staple from proportions questionable." Sherlock had appeared, very likely came from his bedroom. He had a lab coat under his arm and a pair of goggles. He handed them to the child - Archie and gave her a brief nod to which Molly replied with an identical one, eyebrows raised. _Sherlock_ _?_ Was _he_ the friend to whom was referring?

Archie took them without a word of thanks. He began to fold the coat and put on the glasses around his neck, like a strange ornamental necklace. "She’s your girlfriend?" asked, while he was performing this series of actions with meticulous precision.

Sherlock blinked. The prospect seemed to confuse him. Or maybe it was the fact that someone, was even a child, could be touched by the idea to upset him?

"She's Molly," he replied with simplicity and a genuine note of wonder.

Molly looked away and pursed her lips to hide the smile that those two simple words had aroused. "It's a way of saying that she isn’t," Archie said, wrinkling his nose with discontent. He turned toward her. "I remember now. You’re Dagger Meat's girlfriend. "

"What?" Dagger Meat? What? Oh. _Oh_.

"Have you broken with him?" Archie continued. "If I was bound to someone so stupid and I knew it, I would break right away."

"Tom is not stupid," Molly defended with conviction. She asked what was the proper way to explain to a child of ten years the insane logic that pushed an adult to become ridiculous. "He just has a great imagination."

"You are kind, or you are very stupid too."

Before Molly could say something, anything, Sherlock’s hand snapped at Archie. Two seconds later Archie was standing in front of her, forced out of Sherlock's socket who had seized him by the neckline of the shirt and had obliged him into a position humble and certainly unpleasant. "Apologize," he ordered sharply.

"What?" Molly breathed out.

At the same time, with an equal emphasis of bewilderment and a bit of bother, Archie asked: "Why?"

"You have been saucy when she instead was polite, you’ve also been disrespectful without reason. Now ask her pardon," Sherlock reiterated, giving him a slight shrug.

 _So if he had been disrespectful, but for a reason entirely plausible, it would be fine?_ Molly had to bite her tongue, torn between disbelief, discomfort and guilt.

Archie lowered his chin, nuzzled the sneakers on the carpet. "I'm sorry."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and opened his mouth. Apparently the tone of the apology did not satisfy him.

Without being seen by Archie, Molly hit him on the forearm with the bag, before he could say something tragically true but comically out of place.

Sherlock's eyes widened in an expression grotesque. It was the outraged air of a peacock and the look stated in no uncertain terms: _You're in trouble_ _, Molly Hooper. How dare you_ \- and other kinds of jokes.

Molly ignored him. She stroked Archie’s head, sullen in the typical offense of a child who was reprimanded because he was wrong. "It doesn’t matter, Archie. I'm used to people who misunderstand the courtesy and try to buy me with flatteries."

 _Take it in that place, Sherlock,_ John would have said, giggling. Molly was more inclined to reasonableness, so she thought an indulgent: _Serves you right_.

When she make eye’s contact with Sherlock, Molly was surprised to not find any trace of annoyance or disappointment or irritation. She had already seen that light - a flash indefinite cross it - _that face_.

She couldn’t remember when and the non-memory stung her chest and sharpened her breath.

 

* * *

 

It turned out that the non-emergency of Sherlock was in fact a not-openly-declared demand for baby-sitting. It turned out that Sherlock had an on going case (a seven, nothing to be alarmed about, anyway) and that despite this, he didn’t "have the heart" (this was the kind linguistic loophole found by Molly who, however, firmly believed that had been a full-blown forgetfulness) to postpone or cancel the appointment made earlier with Archie.

John was at work (snort irreverent), the same was said of Mary. Mrs. Hudson had gone to visit an old friend to dig up a youthfulness long since expatriate (shrug, another snort of pure impudence). In the circle of alternatives, then, she remained the only available.

From prosaic and quiet that had been, the day had turned into a whirlwind of opportunities and solutions. Molly could get angry about the non-existent notice that Sherlock had given her, she could feel offended by the incontrovertible assumption that saw Sherlock take for granted - _and with good reason_ _, damn him!_ \- That she had nothing better to do in her only free afternoon midweek.

Molly chose not to mulling. She had become quite good at ignore the bad thoughts.

 

* * *

 

She was delighted in transforming the kitchen into a nightmare of Severed Fingers of Witch, Bloodied Eyes and Ripped, Gnawed Bones, Zombie Brains, a Cemetery Tombstones, Dolls Skeleton, Spiders Hairy. In the fun shared with Archie which she told -  her arms sunk up to the elbows in the dough for cakes - the story of Jack-o'-lantern, a blacksmith crafty and stingy drunkard, that one day met the devil at the bar *, (Sherlock from the living room muttered about the niceties collective ignorance, on Samhain, the Celtic New Year and the "end of summer" and "Molly. I asked you to watch over the child, not to become the little baker.").

The satisfaction faded into a smirk when the shadow of Sherlock made a projection to the floor, in the space between her and Archie, sitting as Indians in front of the oven.

Sherlock's gaze lingered on everything and anything in the kitchen upside down - baking sheets in the sink, floured table, syringes pastry with icing and jelly abandoned in a corner. He arched one side of mouth. It looked like what he was seeing amused him. _Possible?_

"No caramelized apples, I see."

"On the other hand you have discovered an oven and that by mixing eggs, milk, butter and flour can be created artistic productions worthy of a crime scene."

Sherlock looked up at the ceiling and - _Don't be ridiculous_ _, Molly,_ seemed to say.

 

* * *

 

Like all the pleasurable experiences, as those unpleasant, even that afternoon came to an end. Archie stocked up on Ripped Eyes. He had the coat that Sherlock had given him, neatly folded in the backpack, and goggles around his neck. Molly had promised him that the next time would be dedicated to home-made chemical experiments.

 _Long life to science_ , was Sherlock’s derisive comment.

"Greet one another as is proper to civilized people with a certain intellect and reasonableness," Sherlock commanded, without getting up from his desk.

Molly turned abruptly. "You just said that I'm smart?" she asked, surprised. She blushed. "Sorry. It's just that you've never said before."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "One more remark like that and I could recant."

Molly shook her head and leaned over to Archie. She had a dazzling smile. She was surprised when the child stood on tips and took advantage to throw his arms around her neck and hold her with all the strength he had. "You cannot leave Dagger Meat for him?" He murmured in her ear with vehemence. "He also l-"

Molly could only imagine what he was about to say.

"Archie." Again Sherlock, a clear note of warning in his velvet's voice. "Your mother begins to show signs of impatience. Another fifteen seconds, and she will unleash against me Scotland Yard."

Archie nodded. He gave her one last look, one of those in which children are able to contain all the words in the world. Then he ran away down the stairs.

 

* * *

 

Molly had cleaned up the mess in the kitchen. At first she didn't want to, but the consciousness had its way, supported by the idea that if she had not done, the thankless task of tidying up would be touched Mrs. Hudson or John. Once finished, she returned to the living room to get her coat and bag.

There she remained, arms crossed over her chest and her expression intent, watching Sherlock while doing his research to the laptop. "Were you so? I mean, as a child."

For anyone else the question, asked suddenly and without preamble, would sound strange and a regrettable lack of respect. For Sherlock, instead, everything that concerned curiosity and store information - even if not necessary like that - was logical, natural act of life.

"The perception we have of ourselves is distorted and inaccurate. You should ask to Mycroft." Sherlock moved his eyes from the monitor, devoting her a small sideways smile. "He would enjoy to demolish me in one hundred and three, no, one hundred and four different ways."

"When you scolded Archie..." Molly started. "It wasn’t necessary, you know. He is ten years old. It’s normal for him to be disagreeable and defiant at times."

"The rudeness has nothing to do with age. It's all about mind-set and it has the advantage of being more malleable as children, not carved in intemperance of experience and a definite personality."

 _Look who’s talking_. Molly shook her head, tying the scarf. "If I had one penny for every time that you were rude, I'd be a very rich woman."

Sherlock didn’t reply and Molly realized that her answer had upset him.

"You say that of me too, Molly?" Sherlock's eyes had become cold and hard, overwhelming. "He has impossible ways, but a brilliant mind. You invent excuses for justifying my actions and the criterion that I follow in doing them?"

 _How explain to a_ _deaf why he couldn’t hear? To a blind his blindness?_

"When you love someone you love even the worst faults."

"How you love Tom?"

Molly pursed her lips, let out a sigh. She had reconnected that flash, _that face_ at a precise moment. She didn't move, nor even Sherlock.

It was one of those moments suspended in time, she decided, one of those that might decide to change lives and history. Bring someone to be a completely different person, to make choices that would never have thought to take before, never travelled roads. Would have been enough just steps away.

In the end Molly decided to swallow the lump of feelings. She cleared her throat and moved her feet, but in the opposite direction, toward the door. "Goodbye, Sherlock."

"Goodbye, Molly Hooper."

Maybe she dreamed it. Maybe it really happened. actually Sherlock had been able apologize to her once, why could not thank her, then?

The fact remained and Molly, that 'thank you', was almost sure she had got only imagined, along with the shade that had darkened his brow when he asked her if she loved Tom.

Molly didn’t know. For days she chose not to. But one day, she wasn't no longer able. She couldn't stop fantasizing about 'how it would be if'. It was the day in which she returned to Tom his ring.

 

* * *

 

 

Before Archie went to Baker Street many months passed. In October there had been an accident, his mother had told him, and Mr. Holmes was involved. Nothing dangerous, but that was why he could not go to see him. They could send him some chocolates, if he wanted.

Archie had said no to chocolates. Mr. Holmes was not one to chocolates, so no, really, nothing chocolates. Caramelized apples, he had said. It had to be caramelized apples.

Therefore, when Archie set foot in 221B, a new year had begun, several cases had succeeded in the interim and something else had changed.

He quickly realized that there was something new and strange in the air. Not because the apartment looked decidedly cleaner, or because on the beam of the chimney there was a small vase of flowers - tiny ones that go unnoticed, but are the most fragrant: lilies of the valley or daisies field.

There were many more books - not that before they were few -, a couple of pillows and a plaid blanket on the couch.

There was a turntable on an old trunk and a couple of photographs, one in black and white.

This wasn’t the something different. _The_ _something_ wasn’t in perfumes or colors. It was in the silence, or rather in the different quality of silence. Previously it was those grainy, full of unspoken thoughts, full of words that its owner preferred to keep for himself, up to the moment in which expose them would bring a benefit.

Now it was another silence. A silence which served as interlude.

A silence broken by a laugh and a grunt, both coming from the kitchen.

Molly was hunched over a microscope, trying to pull away Mr. Holmes who was behind her, his hands on her shoulders. Molly laughed and so Mr. Holmes, even if his laugh was trapped in his eyes, such as certain insects in the glasses upside down.

"Archie," said Mr. Holmes, sign that he had taken note of his presence quietly from the beginning. He looked at him over Molly’s head. "When you go into someone else's home, you must give your regards."

Archie smiled. "Right. Good morning everyone. What are you doing?"

"I thought I secured you a day dedicated to science. Just keep my promises."

Archie's smile grew larger. "Molly had promised it."

Mr. Holmes was strutting. "Just to stay on subject of clarification, I have to modify an observation that I made in the past. Molly is my pathologist _and_ my roommate."

Molly pushed him aside to go to greet him with a hug and ruffle his hair. Winked at him. "Don’t listen to him. He hates the word girlfriend or partner or any variant proposed."

Mr. Holmes wrinkled his nose indignantly. "That's because they are all ridiculously embarrassing and misleading. We don’t have fourteen years old, Molly."

Archie had a huge smile. For anyone who had ears had prepared a huge, euphoric: _I knew it!_

 

 **Archie** **'s first law, applied in nature.**

Under conditions of constant pressure, the concentration of the mind is inversely proportional to the feeling that agitates it.

Expressed in plain language. Put under pressure an adult ("On the gridiron," said Grandpa) in front of the adult he likes and you'll see that three out of three times, something will go on. And Archie had obviously thought about the blood to the brain and other things of this kind. Grandpa, he remembered, had laughed until his grandmother had scolded him about not ensnare innocent souls.

**Author's Note:**

> Just to give to others faults that are not theirs, well, it all started because of my brother. He was studying chemistry, I questioned him and while he was telling me the first law of Gay-Lussac, my head has given birth to this. Talking about Pindaric flights xD.  
> Note abroad as Charles' Law and also called Volta's Law Gay-Lussac, it states that in a isobaric transformation, or under conditions of constant pressure, the density of an ideal fluid is inversely proportional to the temperature. (wikipedia docet)  
> As usual, I hope that if you find errors or imperfections linguistic, expressions that should change because they sound anomalous, you will not hesitate to let me present. I'm learning, but this not an excuse and I know it well.


End file.
